


Super Heroes Make Great Con Artists

by hurinhouse



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:31:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5775253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurinhouse/pseuds/hurinhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter, Elizabeth and Mozzie tackle an adventure to help an adorably helpless Neal</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is super late for sherylyn's fandom stocking. She requested this kind of genre and I've never written it before so it was supposed to be just a little drabble to try it out. Got away from me.

It begins with startled blue eyes, a panicked mass of confusion, and the love of a good friend. 

She can't even say it took two seconds to make a decision because there _was_ no decision. He needs them, so here they are and she finally, at thirty eight years, understands that saying: "it is what it is." 

* * * * *

"Tator tots?" 

He looks at both of them warily before nodding politely. "Yes please."

Spooning them onto his plate, she catches sight of the barely touched macaroni and cheese. She'd sent Peter to Shoprite to grab something, anything, last minute and this is the only thing he claimed he'd found for their first night. She suspects it's an excuse for him to get something fat and greasy for a change. She'll have to make a run to Fairway tomorrow and stock up, 'cause it looks like the tator tots aren't a hit.

"Neal? Sweetie, you don't have to eat that if you don't like it."

"El, you shouldn't start coddling-" She interrupts Peter with a glare.

"I like it, Liz'beth." That lie. Accompanied by the thousand watt smile they love so well. And so it begins. Elizabeth Burke is always down for a challenge.

When she gets up before her boys the next morning to make breakfast, she notices a quarter of the paté from this weekend's wedding missing from the fridge. No crumbs or any other evidence, though the cracker box is less full.

So the grocery list will become more creative now. She can work with that.

* * * * *

 

"Anything yet?"

_"Still working on it, Suit. I had to deal with your people first. I can get to what's important now."_

"I don't like the way we're doing this."

_"Your precious government hands have been spotless so far, haven't they?"_

"It's just wrong."

_"And the alternative?"_

Peter sighs and rubs a palm down his face, "I know."

_"Trust me, if there's a way to fix this, I'll find it. I can still take him to Europe if you can't handle it. They'd never find us."_

"Absolutely not. We'll figure it-"

"Petr!"

And there it is, what he'd hoped he wouldn't hear, right behind him. Then a surprised little intake of breath, right before another "Petr! I drew that one!" 

A Monet. Christ, they've been here all of twenty minutes. He'd always suspected there were forgeries of Neal's all over the country, the world, that hadn't been discovered yet.

_"What?! What did he say? Did you take him to a museum!?"_

He hangs up on Mozzie and runs after Neal, who's practically bouncing beneath a line of paintings. "Neal. Sssshhh." 

"Why?"

"We're supposed to be quiet in museums. Remember? Like the library?"

"Right. Sorry."

"It's okay, Buddy."

This little field trip was a mistake. It's not the noise level. Nobody here cares that a four year old is a little loud, because truthfully, he wasn't that bad. It's the freaking conflict of interest. Peter doesn't want Neal telling him everything he forged or stole or broke into. It's not like he'll be able to forget it when Neal changes back. Mozzie will never believe he brought Neal to the MoMA on merely El's suggestion of getting out of the house. He should have stuck with his batting cage idea. 

If the excited confession just now and the beginnings of a van Gogh on Peter's laundry room wall are any indication, Neal has forgotten that forging is a no-no. The kid had just shrugged last night when Peter had asked what he was doing, brush loaded with some type of blue. "Paintin'," he'd said, as though defacing laundry rooms was as everyday as eating cereal or brushing your teeth. And now he's confessing to federal crimes.

"Hey Neal, let's check out the gift shop."

He's never seen that kind of sneer on the face of a child before. "The gift shop? Isn't that for... " A wrinkle pops up between Neal's brows while he tries to find the snobbish words that used to spill off his tongue like silver. No reason to help him with that...

"For artists? Yes, they love gift shops and all the generic plastic stuff in them. Let's go."

For all the distaste of mass retail and the unrefined that Neal tries to remember, his four-year-old mind falls in love with every shiny thing in that place; paper, glass, tin... and yes, plastic. Doesn't matter, his eyes light up at all of it and Peter is determined to keep an eye on those slippery hands. 

As they walk to the car with two plastic bags of cheap souvenirs, Peter tries to remember how silly his friends with spoiled kids always seemed in the past. But he's gotten off easy today. If he'd been trying to placate the six-foot Caffrey of two weeks ago, he'd have had to spend a hell of a lot more than $63.50.

* * * * *

The immediate aftermath had gone like this:

The day after it happens, ShrinkGate Plus One as Moz designates it, Peter claims Neal is sick. Neal had earned a couple of sick days after all his hard work over the months, the years, and "he looks miserable, and by the way, contagious" (for good measure), when Peter "checks on him" on the way in to the office. 

No one questions him. A couple of people remark that they don't remember Neal ever taking time off so he must be feeling pretty badly. Sharon in Legal offers to take him chicken soup but Peter promises to keep Neal nourished himself, not wanting anyone else to be exposed to any "germs".

Reese doesn't complain either. Neal has been undercover for weeks in Chinatown on the smuggling case, culminating in several arrests at the Shanghai Cafe and the recovery of numerous Buddhist artifacts, all but one currently in the FBI's evidence warehouse marked for return to Tibet. This is a high profile win and their senior ASAC doesn't begrudge Neal a couple of days off. Peter's banking on Mozzie's research of that one "missing" artifact to result in the solution to their current problem. More importantly, he's grateful ShrinkGate occurred when Peter and Neal were alone in the warehouse.

When they realize the dilemma will take longer to solve than a couple of days, the quest for a cure/fix/full body transplant is set aside for the more urgent need of cover. So, in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning, a diminutive but very effective bespectacled man makes a visit to the decadent over-mortgaged home of the third-most corrupt official within the top rung of OPR. Nothing convinces a man to cooperate as quickly as the threat of his own secrets being exposed. 

Within four hours, the chain trickles down to Kyle Bancroft, who pulls his subordinate upstairs to share the new and surprising orders. Reese is incensed, and more than a little confused. He returns to the 21st floor to order Peter into his office, delicately explaining that OPR has pulled rank and taken temporary possession of Peter's CI for a classified undercover assignment in a joint operation with Interpol. Doesn't matter that the guy apparently has the flu. World security trumps health every time.

Predictably, Agent Burke bristles up and down in the presence of his boss, quite convincingly, his voice carrying throughout the bullpen, insisting that OPR has no legal right to take his CI. He rages on long enough that Hughes passes on Bancroft's warning: If Peter interferes he'll be putting his own career, and Neal's safety, in jeopardy. Therefore Reese forbids him to do so. Exactly what Peter was hoping to hear. 

Reese informs him that Neal will be picked up by OPR within the hour and Peter is free to go, alone, to say goodbye. Peter storms out of the office as irately as El had advised, and does not return until the next morning. For days he keeps the storm brewing in his face. For weeks he makes sure to scowl any time the topic of his CI is brought up. Everyone on the 21st floor exudes sympathy for him, and they all know not to bring up the topic of one Neal Caffrey in front of their boss.

The fact that Peter and Elizabeth are suddenly caring for her ill cousin's small son thankfully keeps Peter busy and distracted from the absence of his partner, a blessing in disguise as far as Diana and Clinton are concerned. No one in the office thinks it odd that Peter no longer stays late and often works some mornings at home. Such is the sacrifice families often make.

* * * * *

_"Good afternoon, Mrs. Burke, this is Cecily Hahn from the Academy. I'm sorry to bother you during the work day."_

Wow. That sudden skip in Elizabeth's heart is new. She asks Yvonne to take over sorting linen samples and shuts the door to her office.

"It's not a problem. Is Neal okay?" Worry for Neal wars with concern of keeping this principal happy. June had called in a hefty favor to get Neal into this school for gifted children.

 _"Oh yes, he's fine. What a delightfully precocious child he is."_ El can hear an air of exasperation hidden within those words.

"Yes, we find him to be quite a rewarding challenge. Is there something wrong?"

_"Not a problem per se but... could you perhaps clarify Neal's native language?"_

"Excuse me?"

_"I must apologize for assuming it was English when you enrolled him. We at the Academy strive to be inclusive and accepting to all cultures and ways of life. I assure you I meant no offense."_

"I assure you that none was taken."

_"Wonderful. So getting back to the issue at hand... Neal seems to revert to languages other than English when he's stressed."_

"Does he? Which languages might those be?"

_"Some of our instructors know multiple languages and from what we can tell, it seems to be mostly French or Italian, though one instructor thought she heard some Dutch as well."_

"I see."

 _"With a modified Montessori approach here at the Academy, it's important to us to accommodate Neal in whatever way he needs to express himself. We do have a translator on call, but if we need to hire one full time for Neal, we'll need to know with which language he's most comfortable."_. 

"Mrs. Hahn, can you clarify in what situations Neal is reverting to his... native language?"

_"Certainly. For example, yesterday, when asked if he'd like to read, he chose a book from the shelf and curled up on one of the bean bags. Yet when the instructor spoke to another child then turned back around, Neal was gone. She found him later in an art supply closet, holding the little crafting rhinestones up to a magnifying glass. When asked why he wasn't reading, he began protesting in French about our gems being fakes."_

"Interesting."

_"Utterly. We certainly encourage the children to go about their day as freely as possible, but he does seem to wander."_

"He tends to get into his own little world."

_"Another example would be this morning. Neal was surrounded by several girls in the class, speaking to them in what our instructor thought to be Italian. The girls seemed to be hanging on every word, though none of them were aware of exactly what he said."_

"I can see where that might be a problem."

_"Yes, all the girls think he's quite charming. We want Neal to enjoy himself here, so if you could confirm which language Neal's most comfortable with... "_

"We would prefer Neal to stick to English at school. It sounds as if he needs a refresher. No translator is necessary."

_"You're sure?"_

"Absolutely. Thank you so much, Mrs. Hahn."

_"Have a nice day, Mrs. Burke."_

Elizabeth sits in her office for another ten minutes going over the conversation in her head. Okay. So Peter warned this wouldn't be easy. Neal One, Elizabeth One. Elizabeth suspects this may be just the beginning.

* * * * *

"Typical Caffrey. Dive in first - "

"Literally!"

" - and don't think about the consequences."

"Neal procreating is scary. The kid is Alex's, isn't he, Boss?"

"Diana, of course not. He's Kate's. She had the same coloring as Caffrey... which is why the kid looks _exactly_ like him... "

Peter's subordinates bicker on the back patio chairs while Peter keeps an eye on Neal through the window. He hadn't had to say anything, they'd both just jumped to conclusions the second they saw Neal, which is better than Peter having to tell the truth. 

"Jones, Neal hadn't seen Kate since before prison. The kid would have to be older than this."

"Who's to say Neal and Kate didn't hook up after prison without us knowing? Besides, Alex wouldn't name him after Neal."

"True, but it'd be just like Alex to dump Neal, Jr. here off like this the very day OPR takes Neal away."

"Clinton! Diana!" They jump, both simpering into contrition. He sighs. "I can't tell you. And Neal didn't know about... him."

That's as close to the truth as Peter can get. Without seeing it happen, ShrinkGate is impossible to believe. Unless you happen to be Mozzie, who believed Peter immediately for once. _"I knew it! I always told him to be careful which artifacts he touched but of course he doesn't believe in curses."_ Or El, who only had to look at MiniNeal once to know he was just... Neal, only younger. 

He can't chance Neal going into Child Protective Services, or some experimental medical facility, so Clinton and Diana think they're getting "the truth."

"Peter, OPR might let Neal out of the Interpol assignment if they know he has a kid."

"They won't, Jones. And I'd like to keep this quiet at the bureau for now." 

"Which is why you're claiming he's the son of El's sick cousin."

"Exactly." It sickens him how easy it's become to keep these lies straight.

"So this cousin... "

"There is no cousin, Diana. Jennifer Mitchell is a work of fiction, as is the power of attorney she signed over to Elizabeth and me."

Jones and Diana look at each other warily.

"I know, I know. I'm skirting some fine lines here. What do you think would happen to him otherwise, with no blood relative to claim him?"

Clinton sighs. "CPS."

Peter had tried to keep them from coming over as long as he could, to keep from having to tell this second lie. But they'd dropped some files off unexpectedly and there was Neal, right in the living room with a set of blocks shaped into the Eiffel Tower. Luckily Peter had recently reminded him that he was to pretend not to know Diana and Clinton if he ever saw them before becoming a big boy again. Neal had replied that he'd had lots of practice at Pretend. 

"How long are you going to keep him, Peter?"

"As long as it takes."

* * * * *

A strangled cry has Peter on his feet and stumbling toward Neal's room in eight seconds, not even sure if he's awake when he trips over Satchmo in the hall. Satch was pawing at Neal's door; Peter will have to sand it again. Neal tosses in his bed, tangled in the sheets, a death grip on Johannes the zebra.

"Daddy, no!"

"Neal."

"Don't leave me here!"

Damn it. James was a fucking bastard. Still is, as far as Peter knows.

"Neal." He rubs Neal's arm and Neal jerks, eyes still closed, then quiets in his sleep. Peter watches for a while, his flush little cheeks evening out now that he's resting calmly. He seems fine. But Peter knows how nightmares work. They come right back. 

He pats the bed to invite Satchmo up and lets him lie next to Neal.

"Come on, Buddy. Wake up for me."

Neal's lids flutter. He scrubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Petr?" He seems to sense the dog, rests his head on Satchmo's back without taking his eyes off of Peter.

"Yep."

"You came."

"Of course."

"Why are you here?"

"I live here, Buddy."

Neal looks around his room. "Oh."

"You had a bad dream. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay. You need a drink before going back to sleep?"

"Pineapple juice?" 

"Water."

There's that put upon look. Such a martyr. "Fine."

Neal throws off the covers, toppling them onto the dog, and Peter catches sight of his legs.

"Neal, why are you wearing jeans in bed?"

Neal sees them too. "Not allowed to?"

"Sure but it just doesn't seem comfortable."

"Couldn't find my bat pants."

"Didn't you wear them to bed?"

Neal knits his brow, tilts his head, and shrugs. Peter remembers that shrug and all the meaning behind it. But Neal is four now and Peter is too tired to unearth potential secrets.

He opens the drawer to Neal's nightstand, a pile of pencils rolling to the front, the lead pulled out of all of them. That's... not troubling enough to worry about either, once he finally finds the flashlight and shuts the drawer. He flips it on, sweeping it about the room. 

Okay, so that didn't take long. Right there on the floor at the foot of the bed. Batman pants. Not brightly colored fleece pants covered in yellow ovals with bats in the center. No, _"that's for babies."_

These are snug plain dark blue sweats, almost black. Because the real Batman wouldn't actually wear the bat symbol on his clothes like a cartoon. He'd blend in just like any superhero / con artist. El had made Neal a matching homemade cape since none could be found without the same offending graphic, as long as he promised to drop the con artist part of the description, out loud.

"They're right here, Buddy. How about you get those jeans off and put these on?"

Neal's fingers haven't remembered yet how to maneuver the snap so Peter moves this along with a flick of his thumb, dumps the jeans on the floor while Neal pulls on the sweats. He carries Neal into the bathroom, tries not to think how normal this feels. Neal settles atop the toilet lid, Johannes at his feet, while Peter fills a Dinosaur Dixie cup and hands it off. Neal takes a tiny sip.

"How come you and Liz'beth don't have kids?"

Peter leans his back against the edge of the sink and crosses his arms. He wasn't planning on having a heavy deliberation at two in the morning but apparently Neal's wide awake now. Instead of an awkward infertility explanation, he shrugs and says, "Just never had time. We're busy people; we like our jobs. You know."

Neal stares at him a moment, then nods, less chipper than he'd been. "I get it." He takes a quick sip and hands the cup back to Peter. "I'm ready for bed now."

Usually Neal tries every trick in the book to stay up once he's up. Peter can't help but think he's just put his foot in his mouth again as Neal rolls over to face the wall while he's tucking him back in.

* * * * *

"Gooyer, please." 

"Pardon?" 

The killer smile falters a bit. He knows he's not pronouncing it correctly, but he doesn't seem to get what's wrong. Moz cuts in...

"Uh, he'd like the Chicken Gruyere with Sautéed Mushrooms. I'd like the Salmon and Swiss. Dairy free, of course."

"Can we have cheese sticks?"

"Excuse me?" Since when would Neal eat fried grease?

"They're good, Moz."

The waitress turns to Mozzie, "I'm sorry, Sir, we don't have that here. We have Bruschetta."

"That'll be fine, thank you. And can we get a new tablecloth please? This one doesn't cover the entire surface."

"Okay. I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

The waitress hurries off to the next table, probably planning to ignore Mozzie's request. All thoughts of the menu are forgotten as Neal peels labels off their sparkling waters.

GPS watch aside (that embossed Batman on the strap doesn't fool Mozzie), he's surprised The Suit let him take Neal out "unsupervised." Surely he's worried Mozzie will steal him off to an island in the Pacific. Moz isn't quite sure why he's not doing just that. 

His first priority Post-ShrinkGate was to reverse the effect, and he's still desperate to do so. He misses his best friend, brainstorming cons, drinking Brunello, contemplating Area 51. He sees Neal slipping away with the Macy's jeans and the Disney movies being pushed at him in the Burke Fortress. Not that he hasn't always thought Neal was a snob with that excessive tailoring but... retail is not Neal. And now cheese sticks? 

But watching Neal now, this tiny fresh little ball of wonder, Mozzie realizes this for the golden opportunity that it is. His chance to shape a dazzling young mind from, mostly, the beginning, and curb those ridiculous romantic hero tendencies.

"So how's life at Chez Suit?"

"I beat Petr at chess yestaday," the kid says absently. The label is on its way to becoming some type of mammal-shaped gift for the waitress, he's sure.

Moz waves that off. "Child's play" almost slips out but he steers it into "He has no chance against your brilliant mind, Mon Frére. In fact, I caught on to a new-"

"Moz did you know there's cowboy Casanovas?"

Cowboy what? Oh. 

Oh.

"Neal, do they have you listening to country music?"

Neal shrugs. "Liz'beth listens to it while she cooks. I like the red cup song."

"That stuff is written to brainwash the masses, Neal! They play it so the gullible will blindly follow whatever patriotic lies the government and CEOs want you to believe."

"Wow. I better tell Liz'beth."

"Uh, better that you don't. She wouldn't understand."

"Can we have Twinkies for dessert?"

Moz texts himself to look up flights to Bora Bora.

* * * * *

His little fingers squeeze through the dough rhythmically. There's flour in the grout, he broke one of her grandmother's mixing bowls and they had to throw away the first batch because he sneezed into it. Elizabeth had been inclined to use it anyway, to somehow will herself to forget it had happened. It's not like there'd been anything visible there and she hadn't wanted to start over. But he'd picked up the ball of dough, an enormous wad in his tiny arms, carried it to the trash and dumped it before she could stop him.

"Mozzie won't eat it if there's germs." And that's all there was to that. She didn't realize Mozzie would be coming over but, hey, the more the merrier. So they're onto the second batch.

When she'd told Neal they'd bake this weekend, and had asked him for ideas, she'd been prepared for any request from Petit Fours to Orange Ricotta Cheesecake to Hazelnut Tarts. She'd been intrigued when he requested plain old cutout Christmas cookies. In April.

"Okay. If that's what you want."

"The sugar ones that you decorate," he'd clarified, in case she wasn't sure. "With sprinkles."

She'd assumed all those decorations would be hard to find now, that she'd have to go to the specialty store, but they were on the shelf just as if it'd been December, which made her wonder just what was in preservatives. And here they are rolling out dough.

"Like that?"

"Exactly like that. Maybe push down a little harder? It might need to be thinner."

His little tongue peeks out as he pushes the roller across the dough, his brow knit in concentration.

"That looks great, Neal. You ready for the cookie cutters?"

"Yep."

She marvels at how strategically he places each cutter to maximize the dough field. He carefully sets the inner edge of the candy cane around the curve of the bell. The snowman's scarf fits neatly within the crevice of the evergreen's branches. She remembers just sinking the cutters in anywhere there was acres of space when she was his age. She's sure she wasn't able to get half as many cookies as he is now before she'd had to pick it all up and roll out again.

They get three sheets full before she puts the first into the oven. Now to other things.

She knows the answer before she asks. Why else would he choose these cookies but for warm memories of his mother? But she can't help herself. If she's going to possibly (hopefully - please fail, Moz) raise this child, she wants to know more.

"These will be beautiful. You're an expert at this, Neal. Your mother taught you well."

He stills and looks down, his jaw suddenly tight. "No."

"Oh that's okay. So, you baked with Ellen then?"

He shakes his head fiercely, eyes blinking rapidly. He takes a deep breath. "Never did that. I heard 'bout other kids doing it. Sounded like fun. 'Specially the sprinkles."

She watches him try to dictate his emotions like the Neal he used to be. She sits down on the floor and pulls him into her lap. It's easy for him to bury his face in her sweater and she knows he's stifled any tears that may have come to a normal four year old. She hopes he can't see hers. This was the opposite of what she'd expected.

"I'm sure your mama wanted to do things with you, Baby. Maybe she was just too sad."

He nods. 

"Do you want to talk about her?"

"Not s'pposed to."

"I won't tell anyone."

He doesn't say anything for a while. His breathing evens out and she's sure he's fallen asleep when he offers, "We used to sing. Ellen came over every night an' gave me a bath an' read to me sometimes an' made sure my clothes were clean sometimes. But mama sang with me while we waited for Ellen to bring dinner. It was pretty."

"I bet it was, Baby. What did you sing?" 

"She liked slow songs. Tony Bennett an' Lena Horne ."

"Mmmm. She had good taste. Did she like Ray Charles?"

He looks up at her. "Why are _you_ crying, Lizbeth?"

"It's such a beautiful memory."

Neal turns around in her lap, that beautiful boy, kneels right in front of her. His starfish hands cover her cheeks and he looks at her in sympathy. "I'll sing with you if you want."

A half laugh / half sob sneaks out of her and she hugs him so tight the air rushes out of him. "I would love that, Sweetie."

The oven beeps and Neal pops up, racing around the island.

"Not on your life, Mister!" She catches up with him before he can touch the handle. "This part's all me."

"I've used ovens lots of times, Liz'beth."

"And you will again, but not till you're ten. Or thirty."

Before they start on decorating she texts Peter: _Bring Home More Sprinkles._


	2. Chapter 2

_"Good morning, Mrs. Burke, this is Cecily Hahn from the Academy."_

Ugh. 

"Mrs. Hahn. So good to hear from you. Is there trouble?"

_"Oh, no trouble at all, but... well a request that you perhaps speak with Neal, let him know that teachers are placed in the classrooms for good reason, though that reason may not be evident to him."_

"Did he disobey a teacher? That's not like Neal." That's _exactly_ like Neal. Not outright defiance. Finding a way to edge around the rules? Neal to a T. But, Mrs. Hahn doesn't need to know that.

_"Not exactly _disobey_. More like try to take over the curriculum."_

"Take over?"

_"Yes, apparently Neal felt that the pipe cleaner and paper plate art project Mr. Yoder suggested for today was not worthy of the class. As he put it when questioned later, it 'lacked depth, vision and purpose.'"_

Well crap.

_"Mr. Yoder had turned the class over to his college intern, Josh, for a while during a staff meeting and when he returned, all of the students were engaged in creating a joint sculpture made of the class' rulers and cauliflower from, well, the cafeteria. They were making Michelangelo's David."_

"The intern just let a four-year-old take over?"

_"Somehow Neal convinced him that allowing the students to explore their creativity would gain him extra credit for his degree."_

"Mrs. Hahn, I'm so sorry."

_"I appreciate your apology, Mrs. Burke. Mr. Yoder was able to deal with the situation, and as I've said, we encourage the children to explore new avenues but... we wanted you to be aware."_

Elizabeth smooths things over and ends the call, but with pipe cleaners and paper plates for art supplies, she has to wonder where all her money's going at this place. And as much as she'll have to burst Neal's bubble tonight, she's insanely proud of him right now.

* * * * *

"So pull this little lever here."

Neal leans over Peter's seat and pops the hood.

"Good. Come on." Peter helps him out of the car and round to the front. "Now you have to kind of feel for this one." 

He pokes around beneath the crack of the hood till he finds the strut. Neal positions his fingers where Peter directs them and together they unhook the latch, Peter lifting and hooking the hood strut into place. He checks that each part of the engine is cold - he wouldn't want Neal to burn himself. He hears a clink and looks around...

Neal's crawled up beside the toolbench, running his fingers between the jaws of Peter's woodworking vise. "Neal!"

The kid startles as Peter lunges toward him, trying to decide how to react. So Peter stops, calms down. "Need your help over here."

"Kay!" He scrambles over and up onto the stool Peter set beside the car. He watches Peter pull the dipstick.

"What's that?" Neal leans his small body against Peter's side, his tiny hand holding onto Peter's shirt for balance.

"That's the dipstick."

Neal lifts a brow, his eyes owlish, "I don't think you're 'llowed to say that around me, Petr."

"It's not a bad word. Actually... never mind, you'd be better off not saying it." He gets the stick all the way out and shows it to Neal. "See?"

"Ew. Why am I here again?"

"Now we wipe it clean."

"Good thinking." 

Peter tries really hard not to roll his eyes. "And now we stick it back in."

"Why?"

"To get the oil back on."

"Then why did you clean it?"

"So I can check to see how high the oil is on the dipstick. Now, pull it back out... "

"It's going to be dirty again."

"Yep. But now we check it."

"See. Dirty."

"Yes, Neal, I know. It looks like we need to add some oil."

"You shouldn't have kept wiping it all off."

"Okay, maybe it was too early for this, but you'll understand eventually."

"It's okay, Petr. I don't hafta."

"Why not?"

"We can jus' use the guy Mozzie pays to fix his car."

Pays? Peter would be shocked if that were true. "First, it's not broken. We're _maintaining_ it so it keeps running smoothly. Secondly, you can't pay everyone to do everything for you."

"You said I can't con them anymore."

"Right, but then you do the work yourself."

"It's dirty. And boring."

"You don't mind getting dirty when you're painting or making sculptures in the dirt."

"That's my safe house, Petr."

"Wheelhouse."

"'Xactly."

* * * * *

El trips over Neal's palette. Again. She pushes it against the hamper in the corner to get a little extra folding room. 

His mural is coming along nicely. The background reminds her of Monet's lily pond but there's no mistaking van Gogh's starry night blended in above it. It's beautiful. But it's in her laundry room. If they have him much longer she's going to talk to Peter about clearing out the extra room on the third floor. With her office right beside it, she could keep an eye on him while he paints. 

"Neal, where did you get that shirt?"

Uh-oh.

"Moz gave it to me. It's soft. See?"

"And those shoes?"

"Mozzie."

Here we go. She can hear Peter stalking from the living room.

"El, did you know about this?"

"I... Yes. I did."

"And you were okay with it?"

"I think they're adorable."

Peter heads out to the patio, already dialing. She follows and pulls Neal up to the table, Johannes accompanying, faithful zebra if there ever was one.

"Here, Sweetie." She hands him a worksheet from school. "Finish this for Mr. Yoder. I'll be right back."

Peter's pacing when she joins him out back, "Come on, come on."

"Hon, calm down."

"How many different burner phones does he have?" He gives up on that one and redials.

"Peter, it's really not the end of the world."

"El, Neal isn't going to learn the value of work ethic if everything is han- ... Mozzie? This is Peter. Yes, of course you know. Listen, we can clothe Neal just fine on our own."

El snatches Peter's phone and puts it on speaker before he can stop her.

_"Sears doesn't carry the kind of clothes Neal needs, Suit."_

"He doesn't _need_ a pair of two hundred dollar shoes. _I_ don't own two hundred dollar shoes."

_"I'm aware."_

"And that shirt."

_"Tom Ford. French cuffs."_

"It was five hundred dollars, wasn't it? I looked online, don't bother denying it." Hands on hips, this is serious.

_"Well, if you're just going to answer your own questions-"_

"I don't know why even _you_ would encourage this. You've always balked at extravagance." 

_"It's who he is, Suit. You're wiping away all the parts that make him Neal when you force him into Walmart clothes."_

"They're from Target." El has to interject.

"Maybe this _is_ who Neal is, or was, before he had to reinvent himself with the luxury camouflage to pull off cons."

_"Maybe. It may have been armor, but it was his choice. You're oppressing him."_

"Regardless, we can't afford these kind of clothes. I don't want him to get used to them."

 _"Oh yes, far be it for an overpaid government official to provide basic necessities for a minor in his custody. I paid for those clothes with Neal's own money by the way!"_

"From illegal activities."

_"That depends on your definition of 'illegal'."_

"There _is_ only one definition!" Peter's hands are flying up in the air. This is going nowhere. 

_"Black and white, G-man."_

"Okay, that's enough."

"El-" She stops Peter's protest with a glare. He knows better.

"Mozzie. We appreciate how willing you are to contribute to Neal's upbringing. But keeping him dressed to the nines will not stop him from changing into whatever he'll end up as, if he _does_ change. Please limit anything you buy him in any one week to less than one hundred dollars."

_"One week?"_

"One hundred?"

"Peter. I agree that Neal doesn't need designer labels, but clothes _have_ always been a part of his line of defense. As much of an adjustment all of this is for everyone else, can you imagine how he feels? It doesn't hurt to accept help from our _friends_ who also love him and as long as they are _legal_ purchases, and not excessive, that shouldn't be any problem."

Peter rolls his eyes, shaking his head at the ground. 

"Do we have a truce, Gentlemen?"

"Define excessive."

El puts her foot down. Literally, right between his, and gets up in his face. "Truce?"

"Fine." Fine. She backs off, gives him some room to grumble.

_"As long as Neal gets to choose what he wears."_

"Done."

 _"Done._ "

"But no hats!"

* * * * *

"What's he doing up there, El?"

"Maybe he's scared, the poor thing." Right. Debra Mitchell is a pushover. But she'll also probably pinch his little cheeks and fill him full of sugar like a 50s sitcom. Not the end of the world, but the kid has no idea what he's in for when Alan gets a hold of him.

"Neal? Come on down, please."

Neal walks down the stairs in a suit. One of those fancy bespoke suits June had had made for him last month that were tailored to the quarter inch like Byron's had been. He guesses Neal still remembers how to tie a tie better than Peter. He's holding the small fedora June also got him - Moz got around that with a pretty easy technicality - and the deja vu gives Peter a head rush when Neal steps off the bottom stair. He doesn't look like a cartoon this time, though. Maybe an illustration.

"Well, aren't you handsome?" Debra coos as Neal flips the hat onto his head. He almost drops it, must still be getting used to small hands.

The kid reaches up to Debra's hand and kisses it, for Christ's sake. "Bunswa, Madame." 

"Oh my, what a gentleman you are."

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees El's hand fly up to her mouth, hiding a grin.

"El, what did he say?" He whispers, but Debra's already on that.

"Oh Alan, he's speaking French." The little shit is trying to con El's parents. He sidles up to Alan next, shakes his hand.

"Mishur. Petr an' Liz'beth speak high of you."

Alan doesn't smile, doesn't point out the improper grammar, doesn't quiz Neal on how he went from a six foot man to a three and a half foot child in what Peter remembers as a flash of light. 

Peter didn't want to tell them. He wanted to wrap this secret in bullet-proof glass and keep it in an airtight safe forever. But Alan and Debra have no terminally-ill nieces named Jennifer, and Peter and El can't keep them from visiting forever.

*

Normally El sits beside Peter in the front seat, leaving her parents in the back. This time, Neal soaks up all the attention sandwiched between the women, while Peter's stuck with total silence from Alan all the way to the gourmet restaurant El directs him to. Peter's pretty sure she chose this place specifically for the dress code.

The rest of the evening is much of the same, Neal exuding all the charm he can remember with his usual finesse and flair. Debra eating it up. Of course, he's four now, so these clever overtures are interspersed with childish moments whenever he forgets to be "on." Like the joyous outburst when he sees a Toulouse-Lautrec print on the wall or the indignant pout when the waitress brings him a booster seat. But as Neal cleverly presents her chosen card, the correct one in fact (Peter still has no idea how he does that), Debra graciously does not point out it's from a deck of a different color.

Of course, El's dad is exactly who Neal's performance is really for and psychiatrists are never easy targets. Neal keeps as far as he can from Alan, the old man quiet as always and staring straight through him. Peter would rescue Neal if he knew how.

At the end of the meal Peter learns more skills that Neal hasn't lost. It's always a contest with Peter and Alan when the check comes - the quickest wallet wins the metaphorical prize. He tries to keep the pride out of his smile when he wins this round, swiftly sliding his Visa atop the check. Then he notices Alan fumbling in his jacket for his wallet. 

"Alan are you sure you had it when we unpacked? I remember you setting it on the dash when we left for Brooklyn this morning."

"I distinctly recall putting it in my jacket when we got out of the car."

Everyone searches the floor near the table, their path on the way in. All the while Neal ignoring Peter's glares in his direction. 

"Neal, let's go to the Little Boy's Room before our drive home."

"Don't hafta go, Petr." 

Neal's on a sugar high, practically bouncing with a smug energy he no longer knows how to hide. Peter snatches him up from his seat beside El, "Let's just make sure, Hot Shot."

He waits until they're alone in the marble and glass men's room and locks the door, looking down at Neal from a difference of three feet, "Okay, where is it?"

"What?"

"You know what, Neal. Alan's wallet."

"Liz'beth's mama said he lost it, Petr."

"Neal, this isn't funny."

"Maybe he put it in the wrong coat when we were leaving?"

It takes Peter about two seconds to get what Neal's saying. Sure enough, Alan's wallet is in the opposite pocket of Peter's own suit jacket. The kid's eyes are lit with delight when Peter pulls it out, Neal's hard work finally out in the open, his grin as prideful as any day he'd strategically avoided paperwork in the office.

"Neal, you can't do this stuff anymore."

"Why?"

"Why? Because it's illegal! This kind of thing is how you landed in prison."

Neal's face drains of color, his eyes widening. His jaw drops as he gasps, "Petr! I'm sorry. Was going to give it back. Please don't send me back there!"

He clutches at the hem of Peter's jacket, tears welling up quickly, gaping up at him as if Peter has the ability to save the world. Oh for Christ's sake. Peter squats down to one knee, pulling Neal into a hug.

"Calm down, Buddy. You just keep quiet. I'll take care of it." He adds, "But we'll talk about this later" for good measure.

Neal sniffs and nods, no longer a miniature Cary Grant, but a forlorn puppy dog hanging on every word. What do normal parents have to worry about? Peter's pretty sure it's not teaching their preschoolers not to pick pockets. It doesn't matter that El's parents know exactly who Neal is, Alan can absolutely not find out that Neal took that wallet. 

Neal falls asleep on the way home. That very un-Caffrey-like cookie monster for dessert didn't last long enough to keep him from crashing. Luckily, Alan's helping El out of the car - a conveniently caught heel, thank you, Hon - when Peter carefully tosses the wallet onto the street. 

"Alan, is this it?" He makes sure Alan sees him lift it from the pavement, carries it over to him.

"Well, I'll be damned. I must have knocked it out of the car when we arrived this afternoon."

"I told you you didn't have it, Dear. I can't believe it wasn't stolen."

Alan looks straight at Peter. "Yes, that's almost too good to be true, isn't it?"

*

Peter tucks Neal straight into his new sleeping bag on their floor, El showing her parents to Neal's room. Once everyone's settled, Peter sinks down beside El onto the couch.

"He was conning them."

"You didn't think he'd be past that already, did you?" 

"And he stole your dad's wallet."

"I had a feeling that's what was going on."

"You're pretty calm about it." 

"Peter. He's four." 

"He's also Neal Caffrey." 

"What is the one thing that comes naturally to Neal?" 

"Lying." 

"Let me rephrase... what is the thing most important to Neal?" 

"Well, it used to be money." 

"No, Peter. He wants people to like him. He wants to belong. That's all he's ever wanted." 

"So he's conning them into liking him." 

"He's trying to." 

* * * * *

Still soft and supple. Maybe a little oil wouldn't hurt. Definitely a little oil. Peter pulls it out of the old banker's box and sets it on the table.

Neal reaches for it, slides his hand up inside. He frowns. "Too big."

"That one's for me. But-"

He pries open the box that had arrived the day before last. His mother was happy to get some of it out of her house. An old backpack with his school logo, trophies from middle school, and...

"This one is for you."

"Wow." Peter's glove from little league. Still too big for Neal right now, but better than nothing. Mom couldn't find the peewee glove he'd had. 

"Try it."

Neal slips his hand inside. "It fits!"

"Like a glove?"

Neal frowns at him. Sometimes Peter misses their banter. He didn't realize how literal even genius preschoolers are. 

The park is usually pretty sparse early Sunday morning and Peter's never been more glad that he and El aren't religious. He and Neal get a large section all to themselves. He's not even sure how to throw a baseball at a little kid, so he tosses it lightly. Good reaction time - Neal reaches out instinctively with the mitt, exactly where he should. He drops the ball, though, a little awkward.

They spend an hour playing catch, mini-popups, "running" catches, grounders. That little belly laugh each time Peter purposely misses is like music. Neal does fairly well for the first time, catches almost half at first, more than three quarter by the time they're done. Good progress considering the size of the mitt.

"When I was Danny, I played shortstop."

"You played baseball?"

"Yeah."

"At school?"

"At the park." Neal spreads his fingers out, examining his right hand. "My hands worked better then."

"You just need to get used to them being so small again. Plus... " Peter squats down, places the back of Neal's hand against his own palm to compare size. "... they'll grow."

Neal drops the glove to his side and looks up at Peter, a sudden realization. "They will?"

"Of course." 

But now that Neal asks, Peter wonders, too. He'd just assumed all this time that, unless they found a fix to the artifact's curse (or whatever you call what changed him), Neal would grow up just like any other boy. He needs to talk to Moz first chance he gets.

* * * * *

_Good afternoon, Mrs. Burke. This is Cecily Hahn from the Academy._

Elizabeth is tired. She's found herself in varying states of exhaustion over the last month - life is different with a child in the house - and this has been a particularly "interesting" week. She hesitates, afraid to ask. But she must. "Hello, Mrs. Hahn. Has something happened to Neal?"

_"He's perfectly fine but... there's been an issue. Neal was somehow able to get into the locked teacher's lounge. He took a Chicken Caesar Salad and a banana parfait from the staff refrigerator."_

And things were going so well. "Are you sure? How do you know it was Neal?"

_"He left a note inside the refrigerator. There was a piece of paper, folded up into the shape of a cat. Inside it read 'IOU. xoxo Neal.'"_

Despite the headache forming, Elizabeth has to cover the receiver so she can't be heard laughing. 

_"Mrs. Burke, are you there? Hello?"_

"Yes, I'm so sorry. Neal had plenty to eat in his lunch box this morning."

_"Well, it turns out Neal wasn't planning to eat it."_

*

Elizabeth explains it to Peter when he gets home. A boy in Neal's class, Tyler, had no money in his lunch account. His mother had sent in a check but the lunch ladies believed they couldn't credit his account till the check cleared, a misunderstanding Mrs. Hahn has now clarified. The ladies gave Tyler a PB&J and an apple, what they give every kid without lunch funds. Neal had felt this was an incredible injustice and had taken it upon himself to be Tyler's champion for the day. No one had said whether Tyler actually wanted the salad and parfait.

They both sit Neal down and explain that though they are proud he helped a friend, he cannot steal at preschool. Or anywhere. He says he understands, convincingly solemn with wide soulful eyes. But it seems to El that he really only got two things out of the conversation: First - Peter and Elizabeth will never understand so it's pointless to explain further, and Second - in the future he needs to put more effort into not getting caught.

So Neal Seven, but Elizabeth Six

*

Elizabeth's done adjusting the covers, done flipping her pillow, just settling into a doze, when Peter jerks straight up in bed.

"Hon, what is it?"

"The portrait of Julianna's grandmother."

"Julianna?" El knows there's nobody at the Bureau named Julianna. 

"I get it now. That's what justice is for Neal." 

"What is?"

"It's about people, not rules. Rules let people fall through the cracks. Neal squeezes them back up." Peter turns to look at El, a dreaded dawning on his face. "All this time, he's been a God damned vigilante."

"I'd better make him a bigger cape then." Just as soon as she gets some sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn't want them to cut his hair. He cries in the chair at Famous Hair when he thinks they'll do it anyway, then acts embarrassed when he seems to remember that isn't typical Caffrey behavior, swiping angrily at the tracks on his face. Elizabeth reminds him that he'd probably gotten very frequent trims when he was bigger because his hair had always looked fantastic. 

He lifts his chin then, a hopeful, guarded look and whispers sudden memories of colorful hanging lights and red leather chairs behind the shiny doors by the big park. She calls seven salons the next day before she finds the right one. Peter's furious to find out Neal had been spending two hundred dollars for haircuts all these years, even more so when he suspects Neal maybe hadn't paid at all. 

Elizabeth barters services for running the salon owner's anniversary party the following fall, spinning a very convincing story of why the four year old he'd never met looks eerily familiar and just has to have Marcello cut his hair, and why they very firmly cannot afford to come back. The man carefully sticks to her script as he works his magic on Neal's hair.

"Signore Neal, so sorry this will be last time to cut your hair. I must return to my family in Italy. But I give your mamma name of man even better than me. You will go to him for me, yes?"

Neal acquiesces, chattering in Italian about the dog they'd seen on the way, and the pistachio gelato he remembers from the street vendor down the block.

Neal holds Peter's hand as they walk out first and calls back cheerily, "Addio, Marcello. Tell Rosa Ciao."

Marcello scratches his head, frowning as Neal helps Peter hail a cab outside. "How does he know my wife's name? I only tell long time customers."

Elizabeth smiles. She's learned a few things from Neal over the years. "Oh, I'm certain I heard you mention her. Are you feeling okay Marcello?" 

* * * * * *

The first annual Mitchell-Burke-Caffrey camping trip was devised by El and Debra while she and Alan met Neal the first time. A weekend of Alan, Peter, and Neal in the great outdoors. Peter makes sure not to jinx himself with the thought "What could go wrong?" but he's pretty sure that if Neal has ever camped it had to have been in a luxury resort with room service in Vail or someplace equally ritzy, and he'd probably just as soon keep it that way. 

Neal falls asleep halfway through the drive again - must be a kid thing. Makes for another awkward hour on the road with Alan staring ahead, judging Peter's driving. Worse than Neal ever was because he doesn't say a word, just sighs every time Peter hits a bump.

The spot they've reserved is remote enough to seem like roughing it, but not so far they can't walk back to the pavilion if they have trouble. Peter carries supplies from the rented truck to the site while Alan starts on the tent. Neal absently ties the canvas straps into various geometrical shapes while regaling them with a story about a cottage in the Swiss Alps he'd stayed in a decade earlier, each detail more extravagant than the last. 

"There were these fountain things right at the hot tub where these fruity drinks came right out of a hose so you didn't need a glass. Maybe I might not be able to have those anymore. An' the deck had a toboggan slide built in without aaaany trees in front of it so you could see the stars allllll the way down the mountain."

Alan finishes pounding in the first stake and turns to Neal, unimpressed but not gruff. "When you're done with all that nonsense, come here and help me with this tent."

Neal stares at him a moment, and Peter's sure he's going to have to intercept a smart aleck remark. But Neal's shoulders drop in what looks surprisingly to Peter like relief. From that moment on he's in the here and now, asking how to start a fire and the best way to find water and if the howl they heard is a coyote (it's the neighboring camp's dog). 

They spend three days in that "wilderness," Neal roughing it as much as the next guy. He doesn't care for the fishing and he refuses to use live bait, but he loves hiking and canoeing and with Peter's supervision he etches an otter he'd seen into a tree trunk. He chats excitedly with El on Peter's cell as they drive home, telling her all about the otters and the absence of a toilet (not a good idea, according to Neal) and about Peter's snoring, which Peter is sure was actually Alan. By the end of the trip, Alan nods his approval at Peter over the top of Neal's head. Peter hadn't known it had mattered to him.

* * * * *

The day they upgrade the alarm system goes like this:

Elizabeth puts Neal down for a nap. HIs cranky little butt needs it because they'd let him stay up with them last night watching a documentary on The Fall of Rome, yet he'd still woken way too early in Elizabeth's opinion. 

She'd made a mixed CD last week of his favorites: U2, Bach, Raffi, Sinatra, Davis, Seger... the most relaxing songs of each. She sets it on repeat so Satchmo's barking won't wake him, waits until he's completely out. Then she gets to work on the landscaping out front. They've been so busy adjusting to life with a child, she just hasn't had time to worry about it, but there are dead leaves caked in the flower boxes and weeds in the front stoop cracks and she wants to plant some flowers with Neal next week. 

Mrs. Miller calls over from her own sidewalk, the afternoon paper in her hand. El thinks it's charming how she still reads it every day even though she knows Alice is an internet junkie in her mature years. 

"How's that adorable little munchkin of yours doing?"

"Very well, thank you. He seems to be adjusting easily."

"He's quite the charmer, that one. Put my rake and broom away for me a couple of weeks ago."

"Really? Was Peter with him?"

"I assumed he was around the corner. Anyway, such an imagination, that child. And so realistic. You'd think he'd actually been to Greece and Africa and the depths of the sea to hear him talk."

"He definitely knows how to tell a story."

They talk about a recipe or two and then get back to their own tasks. It takes a while to get the front looking new again, but it's kind of pleasant listening to Neal's CD through the monitor. When she's done, she sweeps up the mess and heads inside for the dustpan she forgot. 

As she crosses the threshold she hears it, sees it and smells it. The mechanical ticking of the oven, an odd burning smell, and smoke. All coming from the kitchen. She panics, bolts upstairs to grab Neal and stops. The smoke alarm's not going off yet and she can hear humming from downstairs. 

And there he is as soon as she turns the corner. Sitting on Peter's wheeled creeper seat from the garage, black marks on the tile leading from the back door. He's rolling it back and forth in time with the tune he's humming, bent over, drawing pictures in a pile of some kind of black dust on the floor. The creeper is attached to Satchmo by extension cords tied to his collar, as though he's on a wagon trail. Satch thumps his tail at her in welcome.

Most of the smoke is swirling out the window Neal had apparently opened. Her panic ratchets down a few notches while her impatience rises. She's not complaining. Not much. She adores him, loves him, and she's still secretly hoping for a little longer before he changes back. But if these kind of surprises keep up she's going to have a heart condition. 

"Neal George Caffrey."

He jolts at her voice, jumping up and positioning himself in front of the oven, arms stretched out, blocking her way. "Hi Lizbeth." Satch stands up in support of his friend.

"Neal, why is the oven on?"

"You look lovey t'day, Liz'beth. Why are you here?"

On the island are the empty shells of the pencils he's been culling in his nightstand. 

"Move aside, please." He drops his arms in defeat, steps back from the oven. Inside she finds Peter's woodworking vise, closed tight, atop one of the cookie sheets. She turns the oven off.

"No!" Neal reaches for the knob, but she's had it.

"Neal, go sit at the table. Now." He stops in his tracks, does as he's told. The vise is heavy when she pulls it out. This must have been why Satchmo and the creeper seat were recruited. She sets it on the island and cranks it open. That same black dust that's on the floor falls out into a little pile.

Oven closed, two more windows open, she sits down at the table across from him.

"I want the truth Neal."

"Makin' somethin'."

"I can see that. What?"

"Can't tell you."

"You can."

"I'll tell Peter." 

"Peter's not here. But I'll tell you what you can do. You can clean up that mess right there."

"Yes, Ma'am." 

She steers him with the broom and dustpan, sits down to watch him while her heartbeat slows down. She hasn't been keeping track of their little... invisible competition, but she'd guess Neal was ahead by now quite a bit. She's not jealous of the boys' relationship; she truly is glad for them. But she'd thought she and Neal were also getting close, finding their own niche. Hell, they'd conspired together to ban deviled ham from the house. Yet he still can't trust her.

*

Neal and Peter have a heart to heart in Neal's room that night. When she'd told Peter on the phone what had happened, he'd been pretty sure he knew what Neal was doing and at first he'd been angry, rambling on about crimes and juvenile detention centers. But he'd been pulled away for a scheduling meeting and when he'd called back he was calm. He wouldn't tell El why, but he wanted to talk to Neal before discussing his suspicions with her. 

They still need to decide on a punishment, hard to figure out with Neal. The emotions and mentality of a precocious four year old mixed with the memories and skill set of the most successful conman in the country. What do you do with that? 

"So?" She prompts Peter when he comes downstairs. 

"He's out. Long day I guess."

"Not just for him."

"I know, Hon." He rubs her shoulders - she hadn't realized she'd needed that. "He was making a diamond."

"What?" She turns around, facing Peter, more worried than she'd been before. "I thought this was just some mad scientist experiment."

"Well, it wouldn't have worked. He knows the formula of course. Graphite, high heat, high pressure. But there's no way our oven or my vise would do the job."

"That explains the pencils."

"Yep."

"Peter. This is not good."

He nods, but she's surprised how calm he is. "It wasn't a forgery, El."

"Then what?"

"Mother's Day is this weekend."

Her lungs pull in a gasp involuntarily. 

"That's why he didn't want you to know. Would have ruined the surprise. Superhero code and all that." He shrugs, almost looks proud.

She doesn't want to cry. She has every right to be angry. How does this exasperating little person bring tears to her eyes after breaking her heart?

"El, I told you this wouldn't be easy."

"I know."

"You always thought he was adorable even when he was thirty but you didn't see the... "

"The wild side?"

It's Peter's soft laugh that makes her relax. "Yeah. Where the Wild Things Are."

"Apparently they live on Dekalb Avenue."

* * * * *

"Here." El hands him the jumble of cotton. Peter takes it gingerly, wrinkling his nose and she rolls her eyes at him, exasperated, and not fondly. "Just go start a load of whites please." 

The water's running again in the bathroom as he watches her march back into Neal's room, not at all waylaid by the smell that nearly knocked Peter unconscious.

Peter sighs and bounds down the stairs. Once he hits the bottom tread he takes his time, in no hurry to return to the disaster area. He steps into the laundry room, holds his breath and dumps the sheets into the washer, but the sour stench still drifts back at him before he can get the lid shut. Holding down a gag, he takes a moment to breathe through his mouth a few times before starting the washer. 

He turns around and leans against it, feeling the mechanics come to life behind him, just wanting a moment before he returns to Sick Bay. 

The mural on the opposite wall has evolved exponentially. El must have let Neal work on it several times this week. Peter feels guilty when he realizes how long it's been since he was in here and he makes an unrealistic vow that he'll help out more around the house, get home even earlier than he has been. Especially since Neal's picking up all these germs from school. And now the flu.

So Neal's forging Botticelli now. Well, not a forgery of course, since there are various changes Neal's made and it _is_ rendered on thirty year old drywall. Still. How has Peter's life come to the point where he's raising a child who can recreate a 1400s master? 

Aphrodite lies leisurely upon her shell rather than standing in it, thankfully covered with some kind of cloth. She gazes up at van Gogh's brilliant sky. Sitting beside her is... The Thinker? Seriously? The guy is as naked as Rodin had made him, elbow still lent against his knee, but his eyes are raised toward the sky as well. 

This is getting stranger each time he looks at it, but Peter's glad it's... original... kind of.

"Peter!" Oh... the clean sheets.

The glub glub of the bathtub draining seems to mark an end to the chaos upstairs. El's wiping water from the bathroom floor when Peter peeks in. "Go to bed, Hon. I'll get this after he goes to sleep."

Her brow says she's skeptical but she lets Peter pull her up. "El, I will. I know you have a client meeting in the morning. I'll call in and work from home."

"Thanks." They head across the hall. Neal's room looks, and smells, much better. And so does he. Damp hair, dressed in fresh PJs, curled atop a stack of blankets beside Satch. And El has cleaned the puke off of the floor. All while Peter stared at a wall downstairs. Nice, Burke.

"Hey, Little Man, how ya' feelin'?" He snaps the bottom sheet out and spreads it over the mattress while El sits on the floor next to the patient, rubbing his back.

"Not s' good." Neal's little face is flushed and he looks listless and sleepy. He cradles Edgar in his arms as though the piece of plush is the key to all his dreams. 

Edgar is Johannes' replacement. They'd looked everywhere for him with no luck. The kid was genuinely crushed but Peter couldn't help think that Neal knew more than he let on. When El had brought home a new zebra the next day, claiming she'd found Johannes behind the washer, Neal hadn't bought it for a second. He named the new guy Edgar and a week later, right after a Mozzie outing, produced a twenty to pay for him. Peter'd made Neal give the money back but they'd let Neal set the table and sweep the floor to help "pay" for the toy since he'd apparently adopted some type of overblown conscience during this second youth. That had been the kickoff to allowance at the Burke residence.

Peter makes quick work of the top sheet and slips Neal's pillowcase on. El sticks around long enough to help Peter tuck the colorful comforter into the footboard, then she bends down and runs a hand through Neal's hair. His eyes open, hands clutching her sweater as she hugs him. "Good night, Baby."

"Night, Ma-... Liz'beth."

A kiss to his forehead and she's out of the room, tired smile in her eyes. Peter settles Neal into the covers, sure that he'll be out in twenty seconds but...

"Petr, will you read t' me?"

"Sure, Buddy. Lie down here and get comfy." Peter spreads Neal's Bat Cape atop his comforter and surveys his shelves, scanning over the spines of the novels El's letting him read. It's been difficult finding books for him. He's a freaking genius and Wheels on the Bus doesn't cut it. Peter reaches for Gathering Blue. El said she thought he might relate to the artist in the main character and it didn't seem inappropriate. 

"No, Petr."

"Don't want this one?"

"Can you read Mowgli?"

"Sure, Bud." He snatches The Jungle Book and sits on the bed beside Neal.

"It was seven o'clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when Father Wolf woke up from his day's rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in their tips."

If there was ever an orphan's tale that fit Neal, this was it. Pre-ShrinkGate, it would have been Peter Pan. But now, Mowgli was like a mirror.

* * * * *

He would love to go help, not only for nostalgia's sake but also because he doesn't want Neal to get hurt. That little body isn't as strong as that of his alter ego. Besides Moz has been waiting out here for four hours. But it's better if Neal thinks nobody knows. 

When The Suit had handed Neal off for Mozzie's regular Sunday afternoon this week, he'd pulled him out of earshot. "He's sneaking out of the house." 

"To?" 

"If I knew, would I be asking for your help?"

"You didn't follow him? He could have gotten hurt!"

"Of course I would have followed him if I'd realized! Look, the alarm doesn't go off when he gets out. Of course he knows how to bypass it, even after the upgrade."

"Ah. Still the best."

The Suit had sighed like the martyr he always acts like. "Yeah, _that's_ what's important here." 

"Hey you can take the kid out of the conman-"

"What does that mean? You didn't... did you find a fix?"

This again. He hadn't had any luck at all. He'd meditated in temples in Thailand and Sri Lanka. He'd hiked the Tibetan Plateau with some very angry monks. He'd even gone to Skinny Li behind the Shanghai Cafe in Chinatown, who only takes appointments the third Thursday of every third month. They all concurred... it was rare for the curse to happen because the prayer wheel had to be turned in a complicated sequence to activate, and even then, it only transformed those worthy. According to the Monks it was a gift, since the endless knot on the artifact symbolized rebirth. For Neal to have done it accidentally was a sign that should not be trifled with, even if they had known a way to reverse it, which they didn't, thank you very much. Their advice: be grateful and leave well enough alone.

But if the Burkes knew Neal was never changing back, they'd adopt him flat out and Moz would lose him forever.

"Still researching. Getting close."

"Sure. Anyway, I'd noticed last month that the security had been overridden in the middle of the night. I just assumed El couldn't sleep and had gotten up, let Satchmo out. No big deal, I didn't even ask her."

_Amateur._

"But it's happened a couple of times this month. All in the early hours of Saturday morning. I asked El and she said she hadn't done it, but she remembered that she'd found dirt in Neal's sheets the morning after both times-"

"Maybe he's taken up gardening."

" - and I remember he wore jeans to bed once."

"I already weaned him off jeans when he was twenty-two, I'd rather not do it again."

"Mozzie, are you listening? So I got up around that time this morning and I saw him sneaking back into the house. If I ask him- "

"You'll never get the truth and he'll be more sneaky."

"Exactly. And if he sees that I'm not in bed before he sneaks out he won't do it at all."

"What's been happening every Friday night?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Everything is out of the ordinary for him."

"We've been getting pizza and a movie. He's been doing chores. That's about it."

"You make him do manual labor?" He'd known The Suit had a mean streak.

"Every kid does chores, Mozzie."

"You wish."

"You live somewhere, you chip in. And sometimes you get paid."

"More rules. Okay, keep track of him till at least eleven thirty Friday night. I can't get there till then."

"Do I want to know why?"

"Not if you want my help."

"Fine."

Turns out, Neal isn't going far. An elderly neighbor beside the Burkes, Mrs. Miller, has a small garage that backs up to the alley. Moz texts The Suit that he has sight of their mutual friend as he watches Neal stand on some cement blocks to climb onto a trash can, a small plastic Duane Reade bag over his shoulder. Why doesn't Mrs. Suit use reusable bags? 

Neal shimmies through a low unlocked window and disappears into the garage - with much less finesse than usual - Moz is glad he's finally getting a lesson on the vertically challenged. 

Moz is out of his cab and sidling up to the garage ten seconds later. He watches through a window as Neal pries apart two loose wallboards and tugs out what looks like a backpack. He retrieves something from the pack - black and white, Moz isn't sure what it is - and hugs it before slipping it back in. Then the contents of the plastic sack are dumped into the backpack before it's squeezed back between the boards. 

Neal scrambles back out the window, making sure to drop back down onto the grass instead of the trashcan. Same old dive and roll Moz has seen him do countless times during jobs. He slinks back across the yard and through the Burkes' back door. 

Moz makes sure to text The Suit again so he won't be caught watching for Neal, then slips into the garage and checks the hiding place. The backpack is old and well-used with a roaring panther stitched on the front. Inside: Some cash, looks like almost sixteen dollars from various coins and dollar bills. A handful of colored pencils in a baggie, a sketchbook, a baseball (that's perplexing). And Johannes. Zebra mystery solved.

Neal's making a go-bag.

Moz texts The Suit one last time: Does he get paid for those Friday night chores right away?

_What? Yes._

He's been doing them willingly?

_I'm not standing over him with a whip. What's this about?_

Nothing to worry about. I'll take him on a playdate tomorrow and explain later. 

*

"How's preschool going?"

"Too many rules."

"Even the progressives are oppressing our nation's youth."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Neal's distracted by the cotton candy. This is fun. Taking him on the carousel and the Ferris wheel. He'd caught some barker screwing them out of a cardboard airplane Neal won fair and square. Felt good to stick up for someone else for a change. 

"So you like it here? With Peter and Elizabeth?"

"Yep." So strange to see his suave friend happily skipping alongside him.

"And you don't want me to take you to Europe?"

"Europe? Can we swim in the Seine?" 

"Eh... no. Let's save the enjoyment for dryer pursuits."

Neal whirls around, almost knocks Moz over. "Let's climb the Eiffel Tower!" His face is lit like a Chinese lantern.

"Maybe we could use the stairs. Just you and me?"

"Yeah." Ah, good, back to normal. He walks on ahead, a little more sober. "An' Peter an' Liz'beth." 

"What if they couldn't come?"

"We can wait for them."

"Maybe they can't make it at all."

Neal tilts his head back and thinks for a moment. "We could smuggle them in the cargo hold."

"So you _want_ them to come?"

"Yeah."

Moz steers them to a bench facing the ocean. The boardwalk can be convenient that way. "Then what's with the stash in the wall of Mrs. Miller's garage, Mon Frère?"

"Jus' in case."

"In case of what?"

"When Peter an' Liz'beth don't want me anymore."

"How would that happen?"

"When I change back."

"Okay, about that-"

"Or if I do something bad."

"Such as?"

He just shrugs. Like _that's_ not ominous. "Neal, you didn't tell The Suit about any of our jobs, did you?"

"We had jobs? Like Peter's?"

"As if. I'm talking about take the goods, run from the cops type of jobs."

"Oh that. Yeah, told him."

"Neal!" 

Neal holds his hands out in a what-can-you-do kind of gesture. "You said not to tell him 'bout paintin's we took. I didn't."

Oh sure, but it's okay to wax poetic in the MoMA about paintings he forged. Four year olds.

"My bad. What did you tell him about?"

"The shiny pointy hat with all those scary statues."

"Ahhh, Easter Island. Yeah those statues were pretty creepy." The ancient crown of Hotu Matu'a is reduced to a shiny pointy hat?

"Did Peter ask for details?"

"No. Laid down with me, told me to go back to sleep."

Huh.

"Well, don't tell him anything else. You don't want to go back to prison when I find a cure."

Neal stills, stops shoving the cotton candy in his mouth. "Did you?"

Neal's been getting complacent, better to keep him on his toes. "Sure. Just have to get it ready for you." 

"Oh." Any kind of animation that's ever been in the kid drops out like a piece of lead. He stares at the ground, hugs himself. Moz doesn't like to see that.

"Moz, can we go home now?"


	4. Chapter 4

"This is Burke."

_"Good afternoon, Agent Burke. This is Cecily Hahn at the Academy."_

"Mrs. Hahn. What's he done now?"

*

Peter tries not to take advantage of his position but today is not the time for chivalry. For some lucky reason he and Diana are five blocks from the Academy interviewing a branch manager on an equities case. Peter tears down Flushing at fifty before Diana has the light slapped up top. He parks on the Academy lawn.

"Mr. Burke, that was fast. The fire department isn't even-"

"Where is he?"

"Out back. Follow me."

So he does. Peter follows Mrs. Hahn through the school and out the doors, into the chaos that the playground has become. As they step out, the wail of sirens seems closer than when they'd walked in. It's not difficult to discern which tree Neal's in since everyone's staring at it. One of the teachers is standing on a stepladder lent against the trunk but he doesn't look crazy about the idea of going any further. 

"I've been trying to talk to him but he says he'll only talk to you."

"Neal!" Peter and Diana look up through the branches, just catching sight of Neal's red shirt through the bright green leaves. There's movement though, and he can see Neal's dark head turn to the right.

"Petr?"

"Hold on, Buddy. I'm coming up."

Diana grasps his arm, "Peter, the fire department's almost here." 

"I'm not waiting."

It takes longer than Peter would like to hike his leg up from the top step to the bottom branch. How the hell did Neal get up here? Once he's on a branch his boyhood muscles remember how to climb easily, though his body protests the harsh angles and rough edges.

He settles on the limb below Neal, afraid he'll be too heavy for the upper branches. From here he can see Neal's Batman cape, rigged around shoulders and knees like a makeshift wing suit, and torn. Neal holds his left arm tight to his body. 

"Neal, are you hurt?"

"Dunno."

"Why are you up here?"

"Jus' checkin'."

"Checking what?"

"If I can still base jump."

"Okay. Any reason that's important?"

The chatty mood ends at that question. Peter can see some of the teachers herding the rest of the children back to the building while others unlock the gate to let the fire engine back in.

"Told the truth, Petr."

"When?"

"Told you I base jumped off that building with the dancer painting."

The Degas.

"Can do it. You thought I was lying."

"You're right, I did. I'm sorry." Peter gestures toward Neal's location. "What happened today?"

"Branches got in the way." Uh... yeah. Peter's not sure which would have been worse, the tree or a building with plenty of space and concrete beneath. 

"So you _did_ jump?"

"Yeah, I landed there," he looks toward the branch above him, "Then I fell here. Then I was scared to try again."

*

The emergency room is a learning experience for Elizabeth. Luckily Neal's wrist is just sprained, but the doctor finds evidence of a much earlier break, a little suspicious for a four-year-old. Elizabeth explains that they're caring for Neal for her cousin, and that they'll look into what could have happened. Peter's badge assures the man it'll be done. If he only knew.

Elizabeth doesn't want to know if Neal's parents had abused him. But she has to know, they both do. So she waits till they're home and he's distracted, digging into the chocolate mousse she picked up for him. "Neal, did you ever break your arm?"

"Oh yeah. Barcelona. It was when Moz an' I-"

Peter lets out the same relieved sigh El is feeling, holds a hand up, "Hold on. I'm sorry, Buddy, I need to take Satch for a walk. But you go ahead and tell Elizabeth, okay?"

"Okay."

Peter grabs Satchmo and heads out the door. They've perfected this dance pretty well over the weeks, Peter ducking out any time Neal mentions something incriminating, El telling him only what he needs to know later. Just in case. 

She's just happy there's not much to tell.

* * * * *

"Mmm. So good."

"I can't believe how long it's been since we've gone out to eat without having to worry about spills."

"Or restroom trips."

"Or charmed waitresses."

Peter changes lanes for the turnoff to Dekalb. They only have an hour left before they're to pick up Neal. Maybe it'd be advantageous for them to become friends with Greg and Janie. They could trade babysitting duties.

"I miss lounging on Sunday mornings."

"I miss sleep."

"Sex."

El points out the dashboard clock. "Be home in twelve. Nine if you step on it."

Of course that's when her phone just had to ring. She looks at the display with a worried frown and answers.

"Hi Janie, is everything okay? What? He ran off?" El looks straight at Peter and he kicks the car up speed, veers back out of the turn lane.

"We'll be right there."

*

"You have no idea which way he went?"

"Greg and the neighbor are out looking for him."

"Did anything happen to make him upset or scared?"

"Tyler, can you tell Elizabeth what happened please?"

"We were talking about our daddies. I said my Daddy bends metal and makes roofs for people. He said his Daddy is a cop and keeps people safe."

Huh, it's odd Neal said something positive about James.

"And I said he puts bad guys in jail. Neal got real quiet then, and said his daddy put _him_ in jail so Neal must be a bad guy. His eyes got all watery and he went to the bathroom."

Peter looks at El, sees all his worry mirrored back at him.

"Elizabeth, I tried to talk to him through the door but he said he really just had to pee. When he didn't come out a after a couple of minutes, I opened the door and he was gone. The window was open."

This is what Neal does. He runs.

Peter's mind goes into agent mode. He pulls out his cell and dials while barking out a few orders."Let's fan out in the neighborhood. Janie can you post this on facebook and call anyone you know in the area to keep an eye out?"

"On it."

"Elizabe-"

_"Hey Peter. What's up?"_

"Clinton, I need your help."

*

Jones and Diana, Mozzie and June's driver have all come to help search. El's as frantic as Peter but she's kept herself together while they walk the neighborhood and Peter's proud of her.

"Do you think Satchmo could find him?"

"He's not a bloodhound."

"Peter."

Peter goes home to get Satch. He wants to send El to do this because it's a lost cause and he's more experienced at searches than her, but something in El's voice pushes him to do it himself. As he walks in the house, he sees light spilling out from under the laundry room door and his throat tightens, his eyes tearing up. He has to take a deep breath to settle down. He knows he turned that light off before they left the house. He almost calls Els but he needs to know before giving her false hope.

He steps slowly toward the door and turns the latch. As he opens it, he's bombarded with the smell of acrylics, and the sight of Neal, asleep against the dryer. A brush dipped in a dark navy has fallen out of his limp hand and decorated the tiled floor. Pale cheeks are marred by smudges of paint. Neal's little chest rises and falls, and Peter's heart stops stuttering. His old school Panthers backpack sits against the washer.

Watching him sleep takes him back to that nightmare. Seems like an eternity. He'd assumed Neal was dreaming about James abandoning him. But it was Peter, putting him in prison. 

He steps out back and calls El, tells her the news. He can hear Clinton in the background and tells El to ask him to handle calling off the search. He owes Clinton lunch for a week.

Back in the laundry room he sets the brush back on Neal's pallet and joins him on the floor. He lifts the little hand in his own and softly calls Neal's name. Neal stirs immediately curling up to Peter's side for a moment before stiffening and raising his head.

"Petr." His face is open and frightened. His eyes dart around for an escape, resting on the backpack.

"Is that your go-bag, Buddy?"

Guilty as charged. The little guy looks down at his lap.

"You were going to leave, weren't you?"

Neal nods.

"Neal, it's okay. You're okay. Come 'ere." Neal looks back up to Peter, searching his face for duplicity. Apparently he finds none. He sinks into Peter's lap and cries.

Peter doesn't tell him not to cry, just holds him, rocks him, for long quiet moments, until the sobbing quiets and his soft hiccups are the only thing to drown out the buzz of the refrigerator. 

The front door slams open. "Peter?"

Neal starts to pull away but Peter hugs him more tightly. "In here."

El rushes in, frantic and wind-blown, but her flurry halts dead stop when she sees them. She kicks her heels off and kneels down in front of them. "Baby, why did you run?"

"Sorry, Liz'beth." She pulls Neal onto her knee. "I wanted to finish it before I went away. But I fell asleep."

"Why would you need to go away?"

"Moz found a cure. I won't get to be here anymore. I like it here."

Damn it. Peter doesn't want a damned cure. Maybe he can lock Mozzie up in a cell for the next fourteen years. 

"Neal, we don't care if Mozzie finds a cure. We love you and we'll always be your family."

"I won't hafta go to jail?"

It doesn't matter what Neal does anymore, child or adult. At this point there is no way Peter would ever be able to allow that. "I won't let that happen, Buddy. Okay?"

"Kay. Liz'beth?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to go to Tyler's house anymore."

"Oh, I thought he was your friend. Isn't that why you took that food for him at school?"

"No. He jus' needed help that day. He's boring. He likes to play Hungry Hippos and Battleship."

"Ah. Not much of a challenge?"

" _And_ he plays by the rules."

"I can see the problem," Peter helps.

"Travesty." El smiles.

El settles down on the floor beside Peter, Neal in her lap, his legs stretched atop Peter's. Peter lets his head drop back, tired. 

The painting has changed again. Aphrodite's hair is dark and the Thinker has something small and shiny sitting at his feet. The size of a badge. Beneath them, kind of holding them up, is a dark cape, dark blue. In the distance, backlit by van Gogh's stars, flying above the pond, is a bat. It's flying directly toward them. Flying home. 

* * * * *

Cheery and peaceful. Cookie cutter. No imagination. Average drone of a neighborhood. Perfectly lined flower boxes, manicured miniature lawns. Finding the life savings of any of these people would be duck soup.

Moz can hear some pounding from around the back when he walks up to the stoop for the last time, and inside, some Sinatra. How many ways has he snuck into this place over the years? If they only knew.

Ha! Even the doorbell is mass produced domesticity. 

"I got it!"

"You just wait for me, Mister."

Neal opens the door, El behind him.

"Mozzie!"

"Bonjour, Mon Frére. Comment avez-vous été?"

"Fantastique! Et occupé."

"Avec quoi?"

"Okay, in English please."

"Sorry Liz'beth. Moz, come on." Neal pulls him into the living room, shows him the sculpture he's building out of gummy worms. A fractal... that's intriguing, and perhaps worrying.

"Why are you building this?" 

Neal seems flummoxed. "Looks neat?"

"Oh, carry on, then."

"You help." Moz proceeds in a minion capacity, doing the grunt work of handing off supplies while Neal gets the glory job. At least that hasn't changed. 

After a while it's evident Neal had apparently merely originated with a fractal, or Mozzie was seeing things, and is now turning the project into the Gateshead Millennium Bridge, marvel of engineering he supposes, but too modern for Moz's taste.

"Mozzie, would you like some tea?"

Ah, Elizabeth with a reprieve. "Brand?"

"McNulty's"

"Did you buy it in Greenwich Village?"

"From their online store."

"Flavor?"

"Chamomile or Orange Pekoe."

"Pekoe, please."

He follows her into the kitchen, watches her work away effortlessly, Neal singing Fly Me to the Moon in the living room. He can hear the G-man pounding away out back but he's nowhere to be seen when Moz glances out - he refrains from asking, wouldn't want to be roped into manual labor. 

A box of animal crackers is pushed up against the backsplash by the sink, beside a Batman water bottle. Truly the life of the American middle class.

The pounding stops and soon after Peter pops inside, hammer on his belt. "Mozzie."

"Suit."

"To what do we owe this... pleasure?"

El hands a glass of water off to Peter, then sets the teacups on the island between them. Moz stretches his neck, makes sure Neal's in his own little world - still singing, still building a masterpiece.

"Suit, I want you to understand, if there's ever a hair harmed on his head, if I ever think you're not treating him like he's spurned from your own flawed loins, or not letting him expand his mind or his creativity, if I ever hear wind of the slightest-"

"Mozzie."

"... I will make this," he pulls a manila envelope from his coat, "and him, disappear where he can lead an enriching life of culture and education and-"

"Crime."

"I... actually... No. I wouldn't do that. I certainly wouldn't let him fall prey to government mind-washing or brainless media sheepherding. But I wouldn't encourage anything too illegal."

" _Too_ illegal."

"A loophole is always important."

"Fine. Why the threats?"

He pulls a sheaf of papers from the envelope and drops them onto the island with a flourish.

They're divided into four sections: A death certificate, in the name of Jennifer Lynn Mitchell. A birth certificate, in the name of Neal George Mitchell. An MIA form, complete with letter of apology and another of commendation from the US Government in the name of Neal George Caffrey. And approved adoption paperwork from the state of New York to Peter and Elizabeth Burke.

He watches their reactions for signs. Tears immediately spring into El's eyes, her hand flying up to her mouth, which is spread wide in a grateful grin. No surprise there. But The Suit... his eyes light up, his face opens up, and his jaw quivers for just a fraction of a second. He stands there staring at the papers like they're a golden egg, afraid to take it. G-men Drones.

"No cure?" once he finally finds his voice.

"Not that _I've_ been able to find."

"If you can't find it, Mozzie, it doesn't exist."

"I don't have an answer about aging, either. We'll have to keep track of his measurements and... " Moz throws his hands up in defeat.

"And hope for the best."

"Yeah."

The Suit comes around the island and Moz backs up involuntarily a step before he stands his ground. Peter holds out his hand, waiting for Moz to take it. "Thank you, Mozzie. You don't know how much this means."

Moz has some Purell in his pocket. He's also pretty sure government contagions can't infect Free Thinkers anyway. He meets J. Edgar halfway, offers his hand in return.

"Really, thank you so much."

Mozzie offers a thin smile, lowers his eyes and nods. And then pops his head back up, "Just don't pin him into a black and white world. He needs to spread his wings. And when he gets to be fifteen-"

"He has you to help with all that, Moz." El chimes in.

"Excuse me?"

"Aren't you sticking around?"

Peter goes along with her line of coercion, probably because he knows it's inevitable, living with Super Woman, "I was thinking weekly dinners at least."

"Well, if you don't think you can handle him on your own, of course I'll put my extensive plans on hold for a little while."

"Thanks, Moz. We couldn't do it without you."

"And don't-

Peter opens his mouth, stops him with a raised hand. "Truce. We can all make this work. For Neal."

"For Neal."

El steps forward and hugs him. He'll have to iron his scarf but it's worth it.

Neal runs in behind Moz. "What's for Neal?" 

Peter picks Neal up, carries him to the window. He points toward the sky, Neal looking up.

"A safe house!"

"The beginnings of one."

Moz looks out into the tree in the Burke's back yard. A few boards are already in place for a tree house, ladder built up against the trunk. It has long way to go, but there on a low-hanging branch, just above the burgeoning floor of Neal's future "safe house," flapping in the breeze like a flag, like an invitation, is the smoothest dark blue cape Moz has ever seen. 

* * * * *

It continues with sparkling blue eyes, a gloriously promising future, and the love a clever little boy.

Neal - First Place. Elizabeth - Jackpot.

 

fin


End file.
